


Beware the Lands of Shrapnel Rain

by LadyOfWwhatever



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Bombing, Concentration Camps, Disabled Character, Emotional Baggage, F/F, F/M, French Jean Kirstein, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Breakdown, Morally Ambiguous Character, One-sided Jean Kirstein/Mikasa Ackerman, Other, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Turkish Eren Yeager, i am so sorry for this i really am i just have a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfWwhatever/pseuds/LadyOfWwhatever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered the time in horrendous detail: The fear of a new day and new horrors that plagued the men, women, and children of Europe that not even the Devil could create. It was a time where he feared that if the fighting just stopped, he would see the true monster that the war created out of him. Yet nothing would compare to the accumulation of grief and guilt that grew over those few short years, no matter how hard he tried to repress it. He would be branded throughout the rest of his life...if he survived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first *published* fanfiction that I have been sitting on for about 5 months, but here it is. I would like to give forewarning that this will be a decent sized piece - around 20-30 chapters. I have no updating schedule as of right now, but I will try to publish every week or every other week if I can. I'm a freshman in college as of right now, so my schedule isn't /too/ busy to keep me from updating. 
> 
> Also, this story is mainly written from Jean's POV (third-person omnipotent), so some of the other character's feelings and thoughts may be lost, as well as some extra insight into the plot unless explicitly stated. I'm looking for critique and commenting is welcomed! Please enjoy BtLOSR...

November 14th, 1940

He knew as soon as he saw the letter and the official seal that the day would not end well for him. His mother had laid it out for him on his desk, which she had also taken the liberty to clean off, and surprisingly unopened. Maybe it was out of some new found respect for his privacy – but he knew that it was out of the same fear that he had in his heart.

  
They had been calling up multiple men for service nowadays, and the war had only been going on for a year. He heard the stories down in the local tavern that his mother owned of men he received a similar letter. Each reaction was unique in its own, but Jean could always sense the underlying fear that they had. He would watch some of the older men boast about surviving the first Great War and how ‘their efforts were so valued that they needed to be in service once more to show those Bosches who was in charge’, and every time he would smirk to himself. The younger men, however, were quite easy to see through. They would fidget nervously as they drank, eyes moving around the room in hope that no one could tell that they had been called upon as well. But Jean knew. He always knew.

  
And now the time had come for him – to sit in the darkened tavern and try to drown his sorrows in watered down cognac. He breathed in and out before setting his university books down and removing his coat. He looked once more at the letter before gently picking it up. He fidgeted with the crisp edges of the envelope, looking at every fiber and inspecting the wax with bitterness. Only in Boulogne-Billancourt would they try to cushion the blow by fancying up the damn thing. Refusing to put off the inevitable any longer he grabbed the letter opener and sliced through the seal. He pulled out the official letter and began to unfold it, but the sound of fabric against the doorframe made him stop. “Mother, please.”

  
“I just wanted to know for myself. Jean I,”

  
“If you needed to know then you would know.” He didn’t even look at her. “You would know when I leave and whether or not I returned.” The harshness of his voice almost shocked him. Almost.

  
“Read it.” His father’s voice added. This time Jean turned to face the doorway. He noted the serious yet grim look that his father held as he wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders. He was never one to show emotions, but even now Jean could see the faintly troubled look.  
Jean looked down at the letter and sighed once more before opening it up. “Dear M. Jean Kirstein,

> Upon review from your abilities by your peers and government in Boulogne-Billancourt, and the census information received and documented in the Parisian archives, we have decided to inform you that you have been selected for training and service within the Vichy French Air Force. You will be required to partake in a full medical evaluation that will result in your advancement into training.
> 
> You are advised to report to your local municipal courthouse for a standard full health examination on the eighteenth day of November this year of 1940 at 8:15 am. If you pass this examination you will be required to submit to service for the Vichy French Air Force.
> 
> Your service and sacrifice will be a great attribute to the war efforts.

His mouth was dry by the time that he finished, and he looked to his parents for any sort of reaction. Jean’s heart cringed as he saw his mother’s face buried within his father’s chest, her shoulders heaving with quiet sobs. He looked up to his father and saw the ever present stone face that he wore, yet this time was different. His eyes were red with tears, but he held his composure. “Papa?” Jean whispered.

  
The older man said nothing, but instead extended his arm out. Jean felt his own tears coming and rushed into his embrace. He may have been almost twenty-three years old, but he wouldn’t deny that he felt safer in his father’s embrace. They stayed like that, holding each other in a way that made the situation not quite as bad, for almost an hour, crying into each other and gripping each other in a tight embrace. Jean had never known his mother cry this much, not even when his father had gone to fight in the first Great War. Her wails were heavy on his heart as he tried to console her with a brave face. Eventually she excused herself to make dinner and Jean was left alone with his father. The man closed the door and motioned for his son to take a seat.

  
“Jean,” he started seriously, “There are certain pieces of advice that a father gives to his son for many different occasions. I gave you a few words when you first started school, and then again when you were being bullied by those boys from down the street. The last time that I said them to you was when you started university. Do you remember what they were, son?”

  
Jean nodded solemnly. “Never give up.”

  
His father chuckled dryly, a way that resembled his usual low rumble of laughter. “Yes, exactly. I said that because those were for the times that life would be harder on you, son. Growing up is a hard time, especially now. Eventually they would have changed for times like your wedding and the birth of my grandchildren, but,” he paused and looked pointedly at Jean before moving in front of him. “I know that you are a strong young man, Jean, I always knew that. You have a strength in you that I take pride in, and although you may give me and your mother a hard time on occasion, you know that I love you nonetheless.” He was tearing up again, and Jean had to restrain himself from doing so as well. “War is a dangerous and cruel thing. You see things on the battlefield that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, things that can change and haunt you. You may be ordered to do things that you may not exactly understand at the time, but you do them anyway, and by God do they haunt you.” He said nothing for a while, and continued to look at Jean with a pain that he had never seen before.

  
Jean reached out to grasp his father’s hand firmly. “I don’t want to go.” He choked out.

  
“I know.” His father replied as he took him into his arms. “I know. But like I’ve always said, you can never give up. Always keep fighting.” He kissed the top of his son’s head before removing himself from the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.

  
Let alone to himself Jean could finally let out the contained scream that was trapped within him. His mother turned her attention back towards his room, ready to go to him, but her husband held her from it. “He needs to let it out before he goes.”

 

* * *

 

Jean lay in bed that night in the bleak darkness, the dim light of the street lamps pouring across his features. He grabbed his watch from the nightstand and glanced at it – half past eleven. He didn’t come down for dinner that evening, despite his mother cooking his favorites. He was too sick to his stomach to eat, too anxious. He could recall some of the old war stories that his neighbors would discuss with his father, although he himself would never speak about them. Jean didn’t expect him to, especially with the injury.  
It was his mother who told him about the explosion one day in late spring of 1917. The battalion that his father was assigned to had been ambushed in an air raid by the Central powers – she hadn’t known which one – and he was caught in an explosion. The blast had taken off half of his lower right leg, just under the knee. She said that when he described it she could feel the pain as if it were her own. The field medics gave him a prosthetic and a clearance to return home and he and Jean’s mother settled in to start a family. He walked with a slight limp ever since then. She said that the war had damaged him far beyond the obvious physical injuries, and Jean could tell. His aunts and uncles would describe their brother in his younger days as a personality similar to Jean’s – sweet and caring, but with an almost playful and haughtier nature within him. His Uncle Herman would recall all of the pranks that they would play on his aunts, Liesel and Maria, but Jean could never see it. All that he could see is the usually withdrawn man with very few words and even fewer expressions. He knew that his father could feel deep down, he could see it with the way that he looked at his mother, but he also knew that there was something else deep down that caused him to act in such a way that made the stories of his childhood appear as fiction.

  
Jean sighed and rubbed his hands across his face. He sat up and stared out of the window when the paleness of the letter caught his eye. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the concept of a piece of paper sentencing his doom – and for the division siding with the Nazis no less. If he was lucky he could just make his way into the military police, or even a position in martial court. He had the education for it; that’s what he’s been studying the last four years at university. If he was really honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to slip out of his home and abscond into the night. He would make his way into the mountain country, although he hated it there, and live as a hermit under some false name into the war died down – whenever that would be. He sighed again as his thoughts continued to fill his mind. He would never be able to make it.  
His mother, no matter how many times he bumped heads with the woman, made a point when she always brought up that running away from his problems would never solve them. The government would surely find him in time, no matter how incompetent that they may seem, and he would be charged and imprisoned for avoiding active duty. It would cause Jean even more of an inconvenience; not to mention his family. He couldn’t imagine being the cause of his familial embarrassment, even if it was for the sake of his own life.


	2. Chapter 2

He was expected to leave in only a day’s time. Jean figured that, if the government had its way, he would have been shipped out the moment he opened his service papers. His parents tried their hardest to make his last day special. His mother had prepared his favorite meal – an omelet, made to absolute perfection. However, it felt more as a last meal instead of the comforting gesture that it should have been. He tried to at least eat a few bites, or at least enough so that she would leave him alone; but he could barely even stomach the meal.

They watched him as he ate. Jean could see the slight worried glances that they tried to mask. One day people would realize that he could read them better than he could in his mother tongues. He sent them a small smirk to eradicate any leftover doubts before they turned their attentions back to their usual morning routine. Jean watched as his father would drink his coffee, listening to the barely audible mutters he would make as he read the newspaper. His mother was unusually active in the morning. She was always moving about throughout their small kitchen from the stove to the table and to the laundry in the corner. She never ate, he noticed. He could never recall a time when she had actually sat down to finish a meal, not that she really needed to. She had the learned appetite of a canary.

He watched as she removed herself from the table, grabbing his plate in what he could only assume was realization that he was not going to continue in his meal. His father removed himself as well and headed towards the parlor room to grab a cigarette. He hardly smoked anymore. Only once or twice a month – and even then when he was under a great deal of stress. He hated watching them move and act out of character for him, it made the situation all too real. Jean could sense the tension inside the house and it made him sick to his stomach. “Great,” he muttered to himself, “now I’m going to die of ulcers.”

He stood up from the table with an exaggerated sigh and made a beeline towards the bathroom. He locked the door and turned his attention to his reflection in the mirror. As soon as he saw himself he let out a wry chuckle. The person that stared back at him was the same lean, pale, two-toned haired twenty-two year old. He hadn’t known what to expect when he looked at the young man in the mirror, but this was about as much as he could see. He further inspected himself, turning at various angles to better see himself. He looked the same as he could tell. The only noticeable difference was probably his eyes. They had become a light shade of pink – more than likely from the lack of sleep that he forsaken for long nights of being filled with burning anger. He gripped the edges of the sink to balance himself as he really looked, past the veil of physical attributes that he held to, and into his own self. His eyes ran over his face and noticed the few tell-tale signs of emotional distress. His face was paler than normal, giving the appearance of almost translucent skin. The veins in his forehead and neck were more prevalent than before. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubble was already taking effect on his jawline. Somehow his hair had even managed to look lackluster.

Jean looked pathetic. He could only imagine what his parents had seen. Probably the breaking boy whom he refused to acknowledge. He wasn’t ready for this nightmare to come. In the little sleep that he did get, it was constantly plagued with various painted imagines of the things that he would hear on the radio and read in the newspaper – of bombings and air raids. He once dreamt of himself being trapped inside a plane, all alone, as it burned and fell from the sky. He had woken up before it could fully play out, but he didn’t need the continuation of sleep to tell him what would occur. He had never feared anything more than he had the way his mind could craft such vivid horrors. His father would always say how fragile the mind is, usually when referring to the occasional war story, and how suddenly it could turn on you.

It was when he felt the dull ache in his knuckles that he had released his grip on the sink. Jean moved back and let out the breath that he was holding in, gasping with air. His ran his hand over his face, holding it over his mouth as he tried to calm himself. It was too early for an anxiety attack. He hadn’t even started basic training yet and here he was losing it in the small bathroom. He needed air – just free space and air so that he could calm down. He could feel his muscles tensing and his heart beating irregularly quick. If he didn’t do something now it was going to turn into a worse situation than it already is.

He ran some cool water and splashed it on his face before exiting the bathroom and grabbing his coat by the door. The house was quiet, but he knew that his parents were still there, waiting for him to break. He wasn’t going to stay and wait for it to happen. He was too old to have his parents there to hold his hand and soothe him if he cried. If he had it his way he would have been on his own, then he could live the life of solitude that he so desperately needed. He eyed the clock – 11:07 in the morning – before opening the door and stepping out into the cold.

 

The only thing that Jean hated about living in France was the weather. The day had barely started, but it was unbearably bleak. The air was cold and bitter, and it bit into his face as he paced down the street. He pulled the collar of his jacket closer to his face to counteract the feeling, but the wind still froze the tears on his face. He hadn’t even been aware of himself crying until he made it outside. It had taken him off guard, but he still pursued out into the world. He hated being weak. Even more so in front of his parents. He had spent enough time in his childhood coming to them covered in tears and snot.

The neighborhood children had been mercilessly cruel. Jean was never a small boy, and he was often teased for his extra baby fat. His friends were countable on one hand, if they even were his real friends. The school children would isolate him for his heritage; having German blood after World War I was not a favorable trait, and with the rise of the Axis and Nazi Powers the most talked about topic, it was even worse now. He never missed the way that people would eye him when they found out his surname – a mixture of bitterness with hateful undertones. He and his family had faced discrimination in multiple situations, and as a result he would bear the weight of trying to defend his mother’s honor and his father’s name, which usually ended up in with a few more cuts and bruises on his part than he would have liked. A name like Kirschtein is not popular in France, and he couldn’t deny how others would automatically assume. It wasn’t as if it weren’t true; his father had been a German soldier before meeting his mother, a young woman hailing from a small village south of Paris. However, he couldn’t understand why it would matter. He was as French as any of his neighbors. He spoke the language just as fluently as they did, he was born and raised in the damn country, and he held just as much pride as anyone else about his nation. He was a Frenchman through and through; but, the German in him was quite obvious. That must have been why they picked him to serve for Vichy and not France. Somehow they must have figured that having some Germanic blood would be enough to make him want to fight with them – for them even.

That is what had made him crack. He refused to believe anything that the Nazis put out, so much that he finds the propaganda laughable. _The ‘Aryan’ supremacy_ , they said, ‘ _Deutschland über alles’_. In Jean’s eyes there was no supreme race; however France hands down was a far superior country than Germany, despite what history might say. It was this pride that had kept him going, really. The need to prove himself to the people around him that he was just as good as they were. He had long ago realized that even in doing so, he could never forget the words and glances. They constantly float around in his subconscious, waiting for the time that Jean may get too cocky or arrogant for his own good to tear him down again. Despite all of the time he would spend fighting the outside battles, he refused to acknowledge the inner ones. He would subdue them, and they would fight back, but he could ultimately keep them at bay.

He also knew that he could be arrogant – annoyingly so. Jean couldn’t exactly reason why he did it, it was almost a second nature to him. Well, he could possibly rationalize it as his way to redirect the attention towards the other person. It was amusing to watch the other person get flustered if he struck a nerve, or to have them make a fool of themselves by their brash retaliations. He fought fire with fire whenever he could, and in all honesty it never helped. It pushed more people away than closer to him, but he would rather be alone than surrounded by people who hated him.

Jean closed his eyes and sighed as he leaned against a nearby fence. He was sick of thinking – overthinking, really. The entire situation of deployment was draining him mentally and emotionally. He was tired of his mind running circles around his life. He tried to relax his tenseness and breathe, allowing himself to further come down from his episode.

He opened his eyes to look around at the small town street. He took in the sight of the shops and their goods in the windows. A bistro sat on the corner of a street adjacent from him – Bijou. It was a nostalgic place for him. He could remember celebrating his mother’s birthday there a few years ago, when he was about 17. His father had saved up for months in order to afford dinner there. There had been good food and good wine, which his mother had permitted, just for the occasion. Jean smiled as he remembered her jovial laugh and brilliant smile. She was a good woman, despite the fact that the two would often bump heads on more than one occasion. She was always there for him. He would do his best to be there for her as well, especially when his father would be away on business trips. The man would be gone for months at a time, leaving the two of them at each other’s mercy.

She would usually get on his back about leaving his room a mess and lazily spending his time drawing. They would end up hoarse and face blotched and red from yelling and sometimes crying.

He chuckled as he thought back on all of the late nights that they would have after a fight. He would enter into the living room, after slamming the door in her face, a couple hours later and see her sitting in her favorite chair – a ruby, velveteen armchair – next to the fireplace, either knitting or listening to some programs on the radio. She would lift her eye to him before returning to whatever she was doing and wait for him to sit on the sofa across from her. He would do so, sheepishly, and take her hands in his and pour out a heartfelt apology. ‘ _Of course I forgive you, Jean-bo!’_ she would cry after he finished. Then they would laugh and joke over a meal and the dishes before he would go down with her to work for the night.

The chilly wind picked up, and Jean was reminded once again of the late autumn weather. He despised it, honestly. There wasn’t a lot to do in the small town, aside from a handful of restaurants and shops and the one park. It was a cheesy tourist spot at most. He had always envisioned living by the coast. He had visited his aunt in Normandy once, and it was enough to make him want to stay forever. He loved the way the sand would squish between his feet, and the cool sea spray on his face. The peaceful atmosphere never failed to calm him down. Every memory of the place was a vice that he held on to for dear life in his times of crisis.

“Jean!” a voiced cried out in the crisp air. Jean turned his attention back to his surroundings. As he did, he spotted another young man – no older than he, with dark blonde hair that flopped slightly in the wind – with a bright, smiling face.

“Hello, Emile.” He called back out halfheartedly. Said young man continued to make his way towards him, oblivious to the obvious lack of social enthusiasm.

Emile neared him in no time, and paused for a moment to take his breath. “I heard…the news.” Jean raised an eyebrow. “The…conscription letter.” He was still slightly doubled over as he spoke, a smile still present on his face.

“You make it sound like I won a lottery ticket.” Jean replied dismissively. He looked over the area, watching the town come alive in the midday. People flooded into the shops and stores, each in various stages of liveliness.

“And you make it seem like it’s not.” Jean turned to look at Emile. His smile was gone now, and eyed Jean questionably.

“What’s so great about it? Being forced onto the front lines to either be shot at or blown up. Half of the country is either fighting against the enemy for the sake of preserving our land, and the other have is fighting with the enemy in a half-assed attempt to protect themselves – it’s a fool’s paradise.” Jean answered bluntly. “I’d much rather stay behind a desk for the rest of my life than that.”

“Of course someone like you would say that.”

Jean’s eye twitched subtly. “And what do you mean by that, Bouchard?”

“Not everyone gets called to the Vichy division, Jean. It’s an honor. I’m just saying.”

Jean paused and stared the boy in the eye. Emile was a couple of inches shorter than he was, but what the boy lacked in height he made up for in confidence. He looked at the thin line of his mouth – a great portion of his face that had a foot in it more-often-than-not – and the slight questioning in his cool gray eyes. “I’m listening.” He halfway growled.

Emile sighed and ran a gloved hand across his mouth. “Look, Kirschstein, I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just wanted to say congrats before you were deployed.”

“Thanks.” Jean replied halfheartedly, turning away and walking down the rest of the road. “However, you can keep your sentiments to yourself.” He emphasized this by purposely bumping into the other man’s shoulder. “I’ll see you. If I ever make it back, that is.” Jean continued down the cobblestone road with a bitterness in his stomach. Something was eating at him, yet, he feared that if he focused on it too much it would bring about another attack.

* * *

 

He sighed to himself and checked his watch – half past one. He had already wasted over half of the day on mindless wandering and sulking, when he really should have been home with his family. The bitterness instantly elevated from his stomach and into his heart. He could literally feel the ache that grew there. Jean would miss his family more than he realized. That was the constant fear that would haunt him all night, every night: to open his eyes in some unknown place, the smell of smoke and burning metal surrounding him, and realize that he would never see his mother and father again. Neither would he ever get to visit his aunts, uncles, and cousins anymore. He would never travel on the coast again, nor would he see any place outside of France that wasn’t either on fire or a wasteland of rubble and ruin. It pained him greatly, and he could never escape the thoughts of death. It was everywhere in his eyes: in the trees, the grass, and the decaying buildings. All of these subtle reminders made him more dreadful by the hour. It sickened him, and he had nothing nor anyone to completely turn to. There was, however, his cousin Adele.

Adele was a few years his senior and had graduated a year ago as a psychiatrist. He would guessed that she would have done something along the lines of the field. She had always leant a listening ear to he and their other cousins, and always one to dish out practical advice at a moments notice. She was also extremely wise and witty - something that Jean had always admired. She understood him on a deeper level than any person he knew. She had moved to Geneva a couple of years before the second war had started to attend school. He still had her address someone in his room, along with a telephone number. Hopefully she wouldn't be too busy to take his call.

He quickly walked back home in the now snowy street, careful of the quickly freezing ice patches amongst the cobblestone. He had no idea why he hadn't thought to call her before, when the inevitability of the conscription grew closer to him. Then again, Adele was almost never in one place for a time. She was an idle traveler. One moment she would be at home, and before the day is over she could be in Bombay or London. She possessed a terrible wanderlust, and fickle than most, despite her sound mentality. He could never quite understand her constant need to be on the move, but he understood now more than ever the need to escape to some foreign land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I have marked in the tags, some of the historical accounts that I put Jean and the others through may or may not be quite as historically accurate as one would like. The conscription letter, for one, was a simple piece that I composed based on various WWII records. I have also decided upon redistricting some of the French geography of being under Nazi rule. I will later expand on the entirety of the Nazi Empire in further chapters. I deeply apologize if this offends any readers, but this is an WWII AU.
> 
> For the "mother tongues" part, I decided that Jean would be multilingual. He speaks, reads, and writes German and French fluently, and is decent enough in English - he can read and write it well enough, but he still has a bit of a challenge speaking it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, since this particular part of the story is set in France, and around Paris, I was a bit apprehensive of adding to this amongst the chaos of the Paris attacks. My heart and prayers go out to the victims, their families, and the country in general. I hope that anything within this chapter does not offend anyone; however, if it does, please alert me as soon as possible and I will make arrangements to edit ASAP. 
> 
> Secondly, I know that I have previously mentioned that I would try to update every week or every other week, but, I jinxed myself with school and have been up to my eyeballs in schoolwork. I have also been dealing with a lot of emotional and social issues with a close friend and have been in a bit of a slump. I had originally intended to finish and post this chapter about two weeks ago but here it is. Please enjoy!

**November 18, 1940**

   Jean had to give it to her. Adele did her best to help, yet, there was still a feeling of anxiety that plagued him at night. He lay in bed with the unavoidable reality that, in the very next morning, he would be shipped off to the war, and possibly never return home.  
   He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in and out, focusing only on the darkness of the room. He had closed his curtains that evening to block out the street lamps. He didn’t want to remember his room. Jean refused to look at anything that would remind him of his almost past life, even when he walked throughout his childhood home. He ignored the pictures of him as a child, his family, and his parents on their wedding day. Every one of them sent a pain in his chest. His father had tried to talk to him again, to get something off of his chest, but Jean was the least bit responsive. The man left with a weary sigh, and a heavy pat on the back. Jean knew what it meant—he was at the end of the rope. His father was an intelligent man—full of wisdom—but he was human, and the knowledge of what words to say could only go so far.  
   His poor mother had tried as well. All the tricks that she had tried when he was a child seemed almost insulting, but he bit his tongue before he could yell at her. She was trying, and that was all that had mattered.  
   An exhausted sigh left his mouth as he sat up on his bed and turned on the lamp. He looked around the room once more to take it all in. It was a small bedroom, and he had barely decorated it. The only furniture that he had been his bed, a nightstand, a small bookshelf, a dresser, a mirror, and a desk. His mother had put up some linen curtains a few years ago, and he had received a floor plant from a friend after his graduation. He did not keep pictures in his room, nor did he have any posters. He did, however, have his sketchbooks neatly tucked away on his bookshelf, along with a few textbooks and classic novels. He wasn’t much of a reader, but his Uncle Hans and insisted upon sending him a novel for his birthday every year.  
   Jean removed himself from the warmth of the covers and pulled out one of them: a copy of Les Miserables, in its original language. He opened the inside cover and reread the written inscription on the front. It was mostly written in almost illegible chicken-scratch, a sign that Hans was probably in a rush and consisted of ramblings about the family and his thought of Jean. He appreciated it regardless. He then ran his fingers across the fabric coverings of the sketchbooks. Some pages were frayed from the wear and tear of time, others still intact. He pulled one of the older ones out from the shelf and flipped through the pages delicately. Some of the drawings had smudged, but he could still make out some of the shading practice and odd sketch designs. He was by no means a very talented artist—not talented enough to get into the Louvre, that it—but he was still somewhat decent.  
   He chuckled at the half-finished portrait of an old school crush of his, a young woman named Cecilia. She had seen some of his drawings, not with his permission, and had asked for a small one of herself. He had been nervous at first, but his bravado had soon taken over. They went to the schoolyard for “better light”, and he begin to sketch the soft features of her face. She was almost too beautiful for a fifteen-year-old. She had a small delicate nose that had a slightly pointed tip, rounded eyes, petal lips with a hint of rouge, and a beautiful array of curls. She was petite and flawless. He was called back home before he could finish, however, and Cecilia had seemed to forget all about the drawing.  
   Jean continued to flip through the books. His eyes lingered on some more than others, mostly of people. There was one in particular that grabbed his attention. It was of his mother, lying in bed when she had pneumonia in the winter a year or two ago. He had stayed home a whole two weeks to make sure that she was taken care of, despite both hers and his father’s protest. He remembered feeling guilty for some reason, probably another heated discussion with his mother. Whatever had happened, she fell ill the same week. It started will a few sniffles and sneezes, and then it progressed into a cough. He remembered his father going into the town over to get medicine for her, yet it still progressed. He could still hear the deep, wet cough ringing through his mind. He thought of her wheezing and labored breathing as she was confined to bed rest. She was always hot to the touch and would sweat through the sheets within a night. His father busied himself with preparing her medicine and comforting her in her ailment. Jean would cook the meals, something his mother had taught him, and bring them to her while his father was otherwise occupied with work. As he was bringing her a medicinal broth one afternoon, he watched as she slept. The rag on her head was damp but needed to try to alleviate some of the heat. She would cough in her sleep, and a pained look would come across her flushed face. Jean was afraid that he would lose his mother. He knew that they would always fight, but he still loved her. He had then set the broth down on the nightstand and went to retrieve his sketchbook. He returned with it and pencils in hand and began to sketch the poor woman. He vaguely remembered tears in his eyes, and if the small wet stains on the paper were anything to go by, he must have cried. All the while he drew he thought of life without his mother. It would be empty without her jovial laughter in the house. His poor father would die of heartbreak.  
   Jean shut the book close with a dull bang. He hadn't intended to be consumed with old memories—especially those. He placed all of the books back on the shelf and grabbed his watch off of the nightstand. It was a quarter past four, and he had not slept at all. He was sure that he would have bags under his eyes when he left the house, but he didn’t care. He stood, stretching his limbs and back as he walked towards the door. His mother was already up. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee wafted throughout his room. A small smile flashed across his face as he opened the door. He quietly crept down the stairs and turned left to enter the dining room, through which he turned left again into the kitchen. Contrary to every other morning, his mother was silent as she prepared breakfast. There was no humming or singing. He noticed the redness in her eyes, and she poured pancake batter into the hot skillet. Something told him that it wasn’t from popped grease.  
   “You’re up early, Jeanbo.” Her voice was a little hoarse. He didn’t know whether it was tiredness or from crying, but he assumed both. She hadn’t even turned around to look at him. Somehow she always knew when he was around. ‘That’s because my nose twitches every time you sneak around!’ She would say. It took him until he was about thirteen to figure out that that was absolute balderdash.  
   “I couldn’t sleep,” He replied simply. He would have commented on the use of his childhood nickname, but he allowed her to have that one last time.  
She flipped a pancake nonchalantly. “You need to work on your accent,” she said, giving him a small look from the corner of her eye.  
   “What’s wrong with my accent?”  
   “It’s too French.”  
   “That’s because we’re French, Mama.”  
   She was silent for a moment. She picked up the pancake and placed it along with two others on a plate with bacon and eggs. She placed it in front of him with a cup of coffee. Before he could even pick up a fork, she placed a hand over his. He looked up at her in confusion. “I am French. Your father is German, and, therefore, they see you as such. You need to practice your German.”  
   He removed her hand. “I’m already fluent, Mother. I’ve learned everything from Father. What’s there for me to practice?” He grabbed the fork and knife and began to cut into his breakfast.  
   “You sound like mountain boy, just like your Father. These are important men,"  
   “French men—“  
   “Who will criticize everything that you say or do, Jean. This war is not a game or school. If you do or, say something wrong that will remember it and count it against you. They see us as weak, and with the collapse of Paris I can understand why.” He stopped his ministrations but did take a sip of coffee. He grimaced¬—black. “I’m not saying that you have to dance like a puppet for them, but you do need to walk on eggshells.”  
   “Mother I know.” He looked at her pointedly. His eyes did not look like hers. His were not as round, nor did they drop on the outside ends. They were sharp, like his father’s, and the same dark honey as his. She backed away then, returning to finish preparing a plate for herself and her husband. Jean sighed and got up from the table. He walked around to the stove and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist, nestling his chin on top of her head. He was nearly a foot taller than her, standing at a decent five-foot-eleven. He could see the gray roots popping up sporadically, and the smell of her perfume. He kissed the top of her head and hugged her tighter. “I love you, Mama.” He felt a small shake in her shoulders and the quiet sniffle of oncoming tears. Jean spun her around so that her face buried in his chest. She let out a muffled cry into his pajama shirt. He could feel the wetness of tears, and instead of pushing her away he held her closer.  
   “They’re taking my baby!” she cried, even harder than the day he received the conscription notice. He shushed her and rocked her softly. She was shaking with each outburst, gripping the front of his shirt tighter than before. His father had come down from the upstairs—he probably had heard her—and removed the pan off of the stove before the breakfast could burn. His hand moved towards his wife’s back, and he rubbed calming patterns against the silk of her robe.  
   “Finish your breakfast, son,” He said hoarsely. Jean nodded before releasing his mother onto his father. He could see her reddened face briefly, as well as his father’s tearful eyes. Jean sat at the table and continued to eat in bitter silence.

 

* * *

 

 

  Immaculate. They wanted him to present himself in the most immaculate way possible. Shaving and washing had been no problem, but his hair posed a different problem. Jean had his hair cut shorter in the back and sides the day before, just as they had asked, but the top he had left alone. It was much lighter than the rest of the dark brown that covered his head, almost an ashen hue of brown, and had a tendency to spike up in the oddest fashion when he did not take a comb to it. The texture of it was light, but it was also quite thick. It was an anomaly, yet he would conquer it. He spent a greater deal of the morning combing and brushing and oiling it down to perfection. By the time he was finished it was in the common style of most men: slicked back and every hair in place. Had the circumstances been better he would have laughed at himself. He looked completely different from his usual self—he almost looked like a younger boy trying to impersonate his father. In a way he almost did. He was only missing the mustache that his father had been wearing ever since Jean was even conscious of it.  
   He soon broke himself from the thought and continued to put on the standard uniform that they had given him. It was delivered to him that very same day around dinner. He had simply left it folded in the package paper on his dresser. He almost forgot about it, honestly. Somehow he must have blocked it out amidst the internal crises that he had been having lately. Here it was, neatly pressed and placed on his made bed. He touched the fabric lightly and grimaced¬—wool. It was a courteous gesture from the Vichy Air Force; he would admit so that the new recruits would not freeze to death at the beginning of their training. He had no idea why they couldn’t wait until it warmed in the spring. Well, then again he could.  
   Jean wasn’t a fan of politics—never had a head for it—and he almost never listened to a full war broadcast. Every bit of information that he received was either from word of mouth or a stray snippet in passing a radio. What he did know was that Germany and the rest of the Axis were putting up an intense fight, and the Allies were having trouble gaining the upper hand. France had lost the majority of northern territory a little more than three months ago, and the spread of Nazi forces had expanded all along the western border. Vichy was south of where he was, and a four-hour train ride at best, and had also fallen to the Nazi Regime.  
   However, no matter who you talked to, the status of what Power would be in total control was not a certainty. Men died every day, and more men would be needed to keep the power that the Nazis currently had. Jean was sure that almost every man over the age of eighteen was fighting for Germany, and now they needed to expand out into the newly acquired territory for even more soldiers. That is why he was chosen. The Axis were so desperate for winning the war that they had to take out from other countries. The reality now was that he was going away to fight in a war that would alter his life as well as everyone else’s.

 

* * *

 

 

  By the time he was finished dressing in his standard uniform, it was almost seven o’clock. Jean needn’t be at the court for another hour and a half, but he had reasoned that it was best to go ahead and leave earlier. The court was only but a quick drive of ten minutes or so, but he could imagine the line of nervous and irritated young men out of the front doors. He placed his beret neatly on his head and looked one last time in the mirror—he still looked ridiculous. He sighed and picked his suitcase from off of the floor and walked out and down the stairs. Each step echoed solemnly on the wooden stairs as the heavy heel of his boots clomped down. Both of his parents stood to wait for him at the bottom of the steps. He couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous as they watched him intensely.  
   His mother’s hand reached out to tuck a few loose strands under his beret when he reached the ground floor. He instinctively shied away from it, not wanting to bat her hand away. “The man looks fine, Marie.” His father said lightheartedly. Jean looked at his father and tried his best to smile at him. “How do you feel, son?”  
   “Like I could throw up,” He replied honestly.  
   “Everything will be ok, son.” The thoughtfulness was there, but the truth was far from it. Jean nodded his head courteously and motioned for them to move out of the door. Jean loaded his suitcase into the trunk of the car and opened the door for his mother in the front, mindful of her dress and coat as he closed the door. It was as freezing and glum as it could have been that day, and the streets were filled with gray snow and ice. The early morning sun was barely peeking through the clouds. Jean looked around the neighborhood one last time and grimaced. No one was to be found. Indoor lights were still off, and only the street lanterns provided any light. The air was cold and crisp, almost painful to breathe. He expected to remember the neighborhood as some majestic early winter wonderland—he instead received a near desolate and frozen arrangement of concrete villas.  
   “Jean, please hurry now. You’re letting all of the chills in,” he heard his mother’s voice call. He entered the car without as much as another glance around.  
   They rode in silence the way there. His father would look every once and a while in the rearview mirror to take note of his son’s demeanor, but he appeared indifferent every time. That was the thing about appearances, they were an easy way to manipulate one’s audience, and even easier to manipulate. In the inside, Jean was screaming. His mind was racing a mile a minute, every anxiety he had had over the past few days suddenly resurfacing. He knew that he shouldn’t be so worked up over something as simple as a medical exam, but passing or failing presented two entirely different results. On one hand, passing meant that he would continue to basic training; failing, however, could lead to forced labor camps.  
   Jean had heard rumors from the same drunken patrons in the tavern. A few men spoke of lost sons, brothers, nephews, grandsons, and friends who had failed the expectations of the medical standards and were sent off the day of to some prison work camps back in Germany. ‘They have no need for dead weight!’ One of them had cried. That had started a rowdiness within the tavern, one that caused his mother to begin hitting the regulars with her broom to calm down.  
   Jean was in decent enough shape. He had been on both his primary and secondary school’s track team. He also played football here and there with some of the other young men in the neighborhood. He could run when he needed to, and he was strong enough from helping his father load crates of merchandise into carts and trucks. He was, however, a little less muscular than his peers—although he was taller than most men his age. He was sure that he would do fine.  
   His thoughts abruptly stopped as soon as the car engine turned off. Jean looked out of the window to see the white marble steps of the courthouse. He stared at the intricate designs that topped the columns surrounding the grand mahogany doors. A few men in uniform stood outside, huddled together in idle conversation. The occasional orange light was flaring with the drag of a cigarette. He craved one desperately to calm his nerves.  
   “I would have thought that there would be a lingering line.” His mother said quietly.  
   “It’s still quite early.” His father responded. The older man turned around and faced his son. “Do you want to wait for a little while longer, son?”  
   Jean shook his head. “The quicker I get this over with, the less it may hurt later.”  
   His father nodded in solemn agreement and opened the driver door. He and his mother followed out. His heart sped up as soon as the heel of his boot hit the cobblestone street. Jean tensed. He would not lose his composure right now. Not here. He breathed in and let out a shaky breath before reaching for his suitcase. A delicate, gloved hand placed itself on top of his white-knuckle grip. He relaxed a little and looked at his mother. There was a small smile on her face as she looked at him teary-eyed. “It will be ok, Jeanbo. Everything will be ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any comments or concerns please let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly just a filler chapter. I apologize for the lengthy update period (for anyone who is actually reading this).

   The parting was brief. His parents were allowed to say goodbye for only a few minutes before one of the soldiers near the door called out to him. His mother had to be pried from him by his father, much to Jean’s chagrin. A few moments later his parents were back in the car and driving away, his mother waving a kerchief from the passenger window as a final farewell. Jean waved back with a small smile as the car drove further away. When the back of the car was no longer in sight he proceeded up the steps and through the large doors into a grand entryway.

   It was fancier than he could imagine—marbleized tile floors expanded throughout the entire building. There were portraits lining every wall of politicians and monarchs that he did not bother to think about and name, and chandeliers galore. A large red velvet carpet cascaded down a grand staircase, and continued to line most of the floor leading to what Jean could only assume were higher chambers. A short man in a high officer’s uniform approached his as soon as he entered the door. He was a portly man, a few years above middle-aged, with a large nose and sharp eyes. He favored his left leg as he walked.

   “Are you here for the medical examination?” he asked. His voice was too high for his appearance. Jean wanted to laugh, but nodded instead. The officer gave him a pointed look back.

   “Uh, yes sir.”

   The man nodded in return, pleased at the new response. “Good. Continue along down this corridor,” a leather gloved hand pointed to Jean’s right, “and head to the second door on your left. You will see a table set out front of the door. Give them your name and they will give you a number—keep track of that number. Once your number is called you will follow in line along with the other recruits to the screening room. They will have you strip down to your undergarments,” Jean’s eye twitched at this, “perform some routine procedures on you, basic check-up things, really, and clear you. When they do that, you are to redress and continue to the greater chamber and wait for further instructions. Understood?”

   “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Jean nodded and continued down the corridor as he instructed. As he neared the door he noticed a lone woman sitting at the table, busy typing something on a typewriter. She looked stunning. Her hair was illuminated in a dark honey color by the overhead chandeliers. She had it styled into the common victory rolls. There was hardly any makeup on her face, from what he could see, save for some red lipstick. He could just make out her slim figure in the dress she wore—an exquisite navy blue, velveteen, long sleeve, with ivory pearls along the neckline. Which just so happened to plunge a bit to show a decent amount of cleavage.

   He smirked and puffed his chest out, his walk turning more into a strut. Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all. Her eyes flicked up as he approached the table, yet her fingers never halted in typing.

   “May I help you?” she said.

   “I was told to come here in order to check in for the medical examination.” He replied suavely, looking her in her light brown eyes. He smiled at the barely noticeable beauty mark under her right eye.

   “Name, please?” She asked, taking a file from a small stack and placing it in front of her.

   “I was just going to ask you.” He winked.

   Her eyes flicked back at him in a mild disgust. “Please just give me your name, sir. The day is going to get very busy, very fast, and I have very little time to deal with men like you.” She leaned a little closer now. “And I highly doubt that my _husband_ would agree with your behavior.” She held up her left hand, showing an elegant diamond ring. The harshness of her words sobered him up.

   He coughed uneasily and stood up straighter. “Um, Kirschtein, miss. Jean Kirschtein.” 

   Her painted nails quickly flicked through the many alphabetized tabs. A few seconds later she pulled out a thin stack of papers held by a paper clip. She uncapped her pen and checked the clock, writing down the time and date before stamping the cover and handing it to him. “There’s not too much of a line right now so you should be in and out in no time.” She said with a tight smile, and handing him a number. “You should be called momentarily.”

   He thanked her quietly and proceeded to enter the room. A clear of a throat stopped him. “Oh, and monsieur?” she called sweetly. He turned around timidly. “Calm down, sweetie. Women can smell desperation and a lack of confidence.” Jean’s face burned horribly. He hurriedly rushed into the room without a second thought. She hadn’t even turned around the face him. He shook the encounter from his mind and tried to focus on his current surroundings.

   It was a large room—enough to hold a couple hundred people—and styled similarly as the rest of the building. There were rows of chairs facing the front podium, as well as a few men occupying them. Idle chatter filled the room as men sat together and talked about something, more than likely the war itself. An adjoining room branched off to his right. Men and women in white lab coats entered and exited the room, charts in their arms and men in uniform behind them. Jean gripped the strap of his bag and moved to the last row of the chairs. He purposely sat away from the various groups of people, eyeing them carefully. Jean knew that he didn’t have a reason to be wary of these people—they were _his_ people—but some gut instinct held him back from socializing.

   The sound of jovial laughter coming from the front stole his attention. Two men around his age sat next to each other in close conversation. The man to his left made various hand movements that garnered more laughter from the man on the right. Jean couldn’t hear any of the conversation, but he could infer that the two were close friends. A few chairs over he noticed another man sitting by himself and holding a book in his hands, reading and looking up every once in a while. Jean had almost wished that he had packed one of his books in his bag. He felt that he should at least do something, unless he continued to look as awkward and reserved as he felt.

   Footsteps sounded off to his right, where another man in a private’s uniform was walking towards him. The man flashed him a smile and made his way to the chair next to Jean. Jean tried to mask his contempt for the sudden and unwanted invitation, but said nothing. The man sat down with a satisfied humph, and folded his arms behind his head. He was reclining so much that the tips of his boots were practically under the chair in front of him. He smiled again before turning to face a mildly irritated Jean.

   “How are you?” he asked.

   Jean could practically feel his eyes rolling. He hated that question with a passion. How could he answer that—especially here and now? “Fine,” he muttered. Anyone with eyes could tell that he was far from fine, but that answer would just have to satisfy this man.

   “Good. There’s nothing to be nervous about, son.” Jean’s eyes flashed irritably towards him. “The routine check-up shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes. They’ll just ask a few questions about your medical history, you know, if you had cholera or scarlet fever or whatever. Then they’ll listen to your heart and lungs—the lady I got could tell I was a smoker before I even fully walked into the room—and check your undercarriage for anything funny,” Jean grimaced at the tactless comment, “Maybe they’ll give you some shots if you need it, but you look like a healthy young man.” He laughed. It was rich and hearty, like he and Jean had been friends for years and reflecting on an old joke.

   “They have already told me what would happen during the examination.” Jean replied curtly, looking forward again. He had nothing personal against the man, it was simply his overly friendly disposition.

   “Good, good. I wished they had told me what was going down the first time. I nearly punched the poor doctor out when he went for the family jewels. I don’t work that way.” He smiled again, and Jean wasn’t even certain if that statement was true. “I’m just waiting now for them to finish up my chart so I can hurry up and go to the orientation meeting. I’ve been waiting three years to enlist.”

   “Why?” Jean questioned. He mentally slapped himself for asking aloud. He was not interested in hearing more of what this nut job had to say.

   “Good question. I always wanted to enlist, ever since the First World War. I was about five when it started, and I didn’t know much about what was going on. My mama wanted to keep my innocent, I guess, but I knew something wasn’t right. My papa was sent to fight around winter. I missed him terribly. I grew up the only boy in my house. I had four sisters—two older and two younger. They were rotten to me, and I was just as rotten back. We lived out in the southern country, and we didn’t have much. Just a small farm barely big enough to support us. I wanted to leave so bad, but I didn’t have anywhere to go. The war was over by the time I was nine. My father died in February of 1918, somewhere in North Africa, I can’t remember where. He was a pilot, too. Shot down by the Germans. I hated them ever since.

   “I just wanted to be a boy. Learn things from my father and hunt and get rough, like a boy ought to. I was robbed of that. I was working that farm the entire time he was gone. When we got the news of his death I just kind of lost it. I didn’t know how to respond. I vaguely remember working sun up to sundown, plowing our little field and taking care of the animals. By the time I was nineteen I was practically bigger than the house. All those years of work just shaped me up, I suppose. I tried to enlist then, but I got into it with another guy in the academy. Nearly beat him to death, although I forget the reason why. So I packed up and tried to go home, but I was stuck in the city for a few days, due to the weather. I stayed in some inn and just waited. Visited a few taverns and cafés for a while, just to see what was around. That’s when I met a girl. Sweetest thing in all of France—beautiful too. We’ve been married since 1922.” His smile returned, despite telling such a story.

   Jean looked at him in disbelief, unable to think of any words to say. He absentmindedly fidgeted with the strap of his bag again. “I’m sorry, about your father.” He finally said. “I’m glad things worked out though.”

   “Me too. If I didn’t have that woman in my life I don’t where I would be. Probably fighting somewhere like a drunken idiot.” He chuckled, changing his position in the chair to a more comfortable one. He pulled his sleeve back and checked the time on his watch. “They should have had my results by now.”

   “Here they are, sweetie.” A woman’s voice called. Jean’s stomach plummeted as _her_ voice called out before them. He looked up to see the woman in the blue dress walking towards them, hips swaying slightly as she walked in her heels. “Well,” she started, looking Jean in the eye, “look who made a friend.”

   “Yea, he’s not much of a conversationalist, but he’s a damn good listener.” The man chuckled.

   “Gérard, please. You know I don’t like that sort of language.” She said, swatting him with the file before handing it to him. “And I’m surprised, he was quite the smooth-talker when we first met.” She said teasingly. Jean’s ears burned.

   “Oh really?” the man laughed. “Trying to put the moves on a married women, eh? You sly dog.” His arm teasingly nudged against Jean’s, almost pushing him out of his seat.

   “I didn’t know.” He replied meekly.

   “Ah, there’s nothing wrong with that. I know that she’s a beautiful woman, and I expect men to line up every day to say something. She knows not to worry, though, since her big, bad husband will knock a few heads to make sure they stay classy. For you, I’ll go easy on you since you’re just a youngster.”

   “Thanks.”

   “So what does it say? I know you already looked.” He said with a toothy grin.

   “You passed. As if you wouldn’t. I have to get back to work” she said. She placed a kiss on his cheek and walked away with a wave. “Oh, and you’re next, Kirschtein.”

    Jean quickly leapt from his seat and moved towards the rooms in the front of the room.

    “Nice talking to you.” Gérard called after him.

    Jean waved back as he continued to the examination rooms. An older man in a lab coat stood in the door way. “Kirschtein?” Jean nodded. “Alright, come with me.” They walked past a multitude of curtained areas, each one occupied. They reached one closest to the end of the room, where the doctor pulled open the curtain for him. “Just place you bags on the side over there and strip down to where you feel comfortable.”

    Jean did as he was instructed, and removed all of his clothing and boots save for his under shirt and underwear. He watched the doctor finish sorting through the paperwork of his files before turning to Jean. “Step up onto the scale for me, young man.” He said, pointing his pen to the apparatus. A few moments of scaling and the measurement was taken. He then instructed for him to stand against the part of the wall lined for height. “One point seven five meters. Quite tall for a young man, if I should say.” The man’s voice was quite indifferent, but every word he said sounded as if he had made a remarkable discovery. “How old are you?”

    “Twenty-two, sir.”

    “Yes, any history of scarlet or hay fever?”

    “No.”

    “Any pneumonia or tuberculosis?”

   “No.”

   “Do you smoke?”

   Jean raised an eyebrow at the old doctor. “Doesn’t everyone?” he replied humorously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard will be back, and possibly a recurring character for the duration of this story. Also, the next chapter will finally include some of the original SnK characters. That's when the plot will also begin to move along...hopefully.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the SUPER-pause. College is a monster!

   "Congratulations, sweetheart. You passed." Gérard's wife said, handing Jean his folder. He eyed it with mild contempt. Half of him had almost wished that he would have just failed. Maybe then he could return home and put this nightmare behind him. A strong pat on the back knocked him out of his thoughts.

   "Ah! Very good indeed!" Gérard exclaimed. "It would be good for the air force to have some young blood!"

   "You do remember that we're still fighting with the Nazis, right?" a lone voice called out.

   The small group looked towards the front to see the man with the book facing the back of his chair. He words made it seem as if he was disinterested with continuing the rest of his remark, but something about his constitution seemed ready to continue. He stood up and gently closed his book, placing it on his seat. He began to make his way towards them, almost strutting. He was a man of average height and build and dark hair that peeked out from the brim of his cap. He wore thin-rimmed glasses that reflected the morning light that leaked into the room through the tall windows. His eyes seemed to disappear in the reflection of the light.

   "Of course, I know that. Every person here knows that." Gérard answered pointedly. "However, the fact of the matter is that this division is here to—basically—enable the German troops while they are here in France. That doesn't mean that I'm fighting for them."

   The man in glasses had already appeared before them as Gérard finished his response. His mouth was upturned in a smirk, a retort ready on his lips. "It's practically the same thing when you get down to it. We're here to serve under the Nazi regime. We are to take orders from them and fight when they say ‘fight' no matter who the target is. That's what we signed up for."

   "Not all of us signed up for this," Jean murmured.

   The man turned his eyes to Jean. Jean looked back defiantly, ready for whatever the man would say. The man's green eyes burned with condescension. "Of course not. I certainly didn't. I'm afraid I was not built for the rage of war, despite what this physical says. I, along with everyone else in this room, are here because over half of this country has fallen in the hands of the enemy. We're not here to fight for it back; we're here to keep it in the political gridiron that it's in until the rest of the country falls in line. Once France falls to the Germans, it will only be a matter of time before they move on to other Allied countries."

   "I won't let that happen," Gérard replied angrily.

   "And just what makes you think that you can prevent it? I've heard your story and plenty like it. You think that you're the only one in the world who has lost a loved one to the war? You could practically throw a stone and hit eight people who have a similar story to you. The only difference between you and them is that they aren't willing to sacrifice what little control they have left on some irrational and rebellious ideas that could lead to death. If you want to defy orders and get yourself killed for insubordination over some typical sob story then go right ahead, but don't pollute the mind of some kid with delusions of grandeur."

   "Shut up!"

   The room was silent. Everyone watched the two men: one seething in anger and the other in cool contempt. Gérard's wife stood behind him, her arm reaching out to steady her husband. Jean could only watch in shock. His body was tense but ready to spring into action if need be. He looked around at the other men in women in the room. They all stood and sat frozen. Higher officers stood by the door with hands on their guns in preparation for the worse. "Face it, the only way to play it safe in this war is to do as you're told." The man said. He once again looked at Jean, his dark green eyes boring into the young man's hazel ones.

   Gérard took a fist full of the man's shirt and held him close to his face. "Shut your trap. No one asked you to come over here and spit your personal bullshit about people's motives in this fight. Everyone already knows the reality, and we sure as hell don't need snobs like you coming in and adding to the tension. So I suggest that you return to your seat, pick up that book, and stuff your face back in the words before it gets ugly."

   Despite the intensity of Gérard's words, the man smirked. "It seems that I've awakened the beast. How charming. Ma'am," he said, looking at Gérard's wife, "if you could please call off your husband so that he may release me I would be very appreciative."

   "Gérard, please," she whispered, placing a shaking and delicate hand on the man's arm, "they'll throw you out before you can ever go to basic training. Let him go." He obliged, setting the man down. His face had softened, but his skin still flushed with anger. Jean noted the bulging veins in his neck. It was the first time he had noticed how large Gérard was. He stood around six feet and had to have weighed near two hundred pounds. He was composed of pure muscle as well. Compared to his stature, Jean may as well have been a child.

   "Thank you, Madam. I did not mean to stir up any trouble with you all, I just simply felt the need to interject at such," he paused, looking up at the angry man, "exciting conversation. However, I will remove myself to prevent any further disturbances. Although," he turned back to Jean, "I would advise you to keep an open mind about other branches to serve while enlisted. You're a young man with a future ahead of you. There's only one safe place in the entire military: the military police."

   "That's the coward's way out," Gérard stated.

   "It's the smart way. The Martial Court is the best place to be to secure a safe service. Well, on the right side of course."

    Jean stared at the man in quietly. He nodded his head slightly and turned his focus back to Gérard. The older man stood still. He was completely calm by now, but his wife's hands still lingered on his arm. "With all due respect, sir, I am honestly just trying to do what they expect of me." Jean said honestly.

    "Suit yourself." The man replied dismissively. "Just keep it in mind will you. Too many youths have already been needlessly killed in this war and the last. Take care." He began to walk away from the small group. The other men and women around them had been looking on with curiosity but had now returned to their previous doings.

    "I just don't understand why some people feel the need to impose themselves onto others—and all for the sake of getting a rise from someone else. How juvenile." Gérard spat.

    "Relax, honey. The day has just begun, and there will be plenty of other recruits coming in. The chances of you having to see him again will be slim." The woman looked down at her wristwatch. It's almost time for your group to head to the orientation room. Just sit down and wait for your group to be called. Alright?" She looked at him pleadingly, still wary of her husband's actions. He nodded and sat back down in his chair. She came and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before returning to her desk outside of the room. "Please keep an eye on him." She said to Jean as she passed him.

    "I will," He replied. Jean sat back down next to Gérard, cautiously watching him from the side of his eye. Despite Gérard's calm demeanor, Jean couldn't help but be on edge. If his wife was still wary of him, how was Jean supposed to act. "Don't take what the man said to heart. Like you said, he was just antagonizing us for the sake of some sick entertainment. We'll be out of here soon enough." He tried to reason. Jean was never the type to comfort someone. Not so much because he didn't have the heart to, but because he just never knew what to say. Even then he had only repeated what had already been stated.

    "Will you do it?"

    Jean turned away from the man and instead looked at his boots. The question was simple, and he had answered it, for the most part, earlier. "I don't know. I'm not even sure if it's my place to join even. I honestly want to do as I'm told and get out with as little casualty as possible." He was completely honest. That may not have been the answer that the man was looking for, but Jean wasn't one to lie. He dared to look out the side of his eye at the man. He was hunched over, his elbows on the edge of his knees as he looked out over the array of people in the room. It had filled within the last several minutes, and the noise of idle chatter began to rise. Gérard's lips pursed in a tight line, his jaw set. One would assume that he was merely pondering over the events that had just happened, but there was no sure way to tell.

    "I see." He replied. Jean stayed quiet. "I believe your ideas may change, though—if you don't mind me saying so."

    "I don't mind."

    Gérard paused as he leaned back in his chair. "Every decision that a person has is bound to be deviated from in some way. No one has a definite idea as to how their choice will go, or which direction it will take."

    "When did you get so philosophical?" Jean laughed dryly.

    "I'm completely serious. Look at all of these men, Kirschtein," he motioned his arm across the room. Jean's eyes followed, looking at a few at a time before moving around the room. "Each of these men has some backstory or personal drive that got them here today. Some may be like me: those who volunteered because of an, admittedly, personal vendetta, or they're like you, who were only drafted here as a result of low volunteers. Between those two groups, I believe that some men are fighting the same way you are—because you were told to." Jean looked at him warily. "I don't mean this in a bad way, but is it not the truth?"

    Jean gritted his teeth. He had practically stated that earlier, but something about the way that the other man said it rubbed him the wrong way. "You make it sound like I don't have a mind of my own." He spat back.

    "What I'm saying is that you know when to fight your battles. You disagree or argue or fight when it's necessary, that much I can tell. That will do you some good here. It may even keep you alive for a while. My point is this: don't become too engrossed into what someone with authority tells you to do. That's what these Nazis are doing. Have your initiative and some skepticism. That's probably the best and only advice you're ever going to get from me."

    Jean sighed. He didn't ask for it, but he appreciated the man's words. He was never one to follow, though. Jean had always had his initiative. Growing up an only child with little to no friends called for single actions made by a single mind. Of course, he tried to keep in mind that the principles that his parents raised him on—he wasn't foolish enough to trust an underdeveloped mind for any major decisions—but he was not going to live his life as some mindless doll either. "Yea, I hear you."

    Gérard smiled and roughly rubbed his hand on Jean's head, knocking the soldier's beret off and messing up his hair. "What did you do that for?" he exclaimed, trying to smooth down the loose strands. If Jean didn't fix his hair soon enough, it would revert right back to its odd nature.

    "You're so young. You may think I'm just an old man spitting out some half-assed wisdom to a young stranger, and you'd be right, but I do know what I'm talking about. You'll see one day, Kirschtein. You'll see."

    "I need all recruits in groups one through four to follow me into the next chamber for a brief orientation!" A man's voice yelled above the rest of the room's chatter. Several dozen men stood from their chairs, gathering their things and lining up near the large ornate doors to the right of the room.

    "Well, that's us," The older man picked up the worn bag near his feet and his hat. Jean followed suit, grabbing his bag and continuing to smooth down any other strands that stuck out. "And quit fussing about your hair. You're about to be in a room surrounded by almost a hundred men. Who are you trying to look nice for?" he joked.

    Jean muttered to himself as he placed his hat back on his head and threw the bag's straps over his shoulder. He wasn't here to look like the poster child of a perfect soldier, but he, at least, wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

   They followed the men into a room down the hall. Inside were more chairs, along with a podium. A large screen was pulled down over the wall in front of the seats. A project sat in the middle of the rows of chairs. Another young man was sorting through some film. He imagined that they would be shown some footage from the battlefield, along with some monotonous narrator explaining how brave the soldiers were, how they proudly served their nation, and every other militaristic patriotism that they could muster up. He didn't need to spend any time on what he had spent months listening to on the radio. Everyone always played it wherever he went. Visuals would just make things too real.

   The groups of men were soon seated. Another middle-aged man walked up to the podium. He was decorated in some high ranking uniform. Jean could see the Vichy cross on the lapel of his uniform jacket even from a distance. "Welcome, men." His voice echoed in the room. "I would like to say that I am glad to have you all here and ready to take up arms though this may not be the best of circumstances." A few men scoffed and muttered amongst themselves. "Nevertheless, we need more men to fight amongst the enemies of the nation. The Vichy Forces have provided us with some encouraging footage of our brothers-in-arms enjoying time in their service." He nodded his head towards the young man at the projector.

   The lights were turned off, blanketing the room in darkness. The sound of the projector turning on filled the silence, and soon the footage light illuminated the large screen in the front of the room. Each man watched intently as credits flashed across the screen. What was possibly meant to be encouraging music went filled the air, and soon images of men in uniform followed. Some were stoic as they marched on. A few others smiled and waved to the cameras. A barrage of airplanes took over the screen next, followed by a few more scenes of men in combat training.

    Jean could feel his jaw setting in disgust. He knew that all of this was nothing more than propaganda to make it seem like the war wasn't that bad­­­­­. Only the simpleminded could sway so easily. The sound of anxious tapping broke Jean's thoughts. He turned to see a young man to his left at the end of his row nervously tapping his foot on the marble floor. A few other men turned to see him as well, and a few more of them snickered. Jean almost felt sorry for the man. It was bad enough to be forced into this situation, but to crack under the pressure before they were even deployed? Jean almost laughed at the thought. He had practically done the same within the last day or so—albeit in the privacy of his bathroom at home. He could sympathize with this man. He had to have been the same age as himself, no more than the early twenties, and being presented with the challenge of whether or not he will live to see another day.

   By the time he turned his attention back to the film, it was nearly finished. A tinny message about being the future hope the nation had echoed across the room before the screen went black. There was sparse applause from various parts of the room, but many others joined in. Jean gave an indifferent hand as well, despite having ignored the majority of the film. He almost chastised himself for seemingly following along with the crowd, yet doing so would ensure his survival. If he took anything from his surroundings and the advice that he was given, it was to make sure that he followed the image of the soldier that the nation wanted. He would have to blend in: saying the right things, doing the right things, anything that would otherwise make him invisible to the superiors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I said before that some main characters were going to make an appearance in this chapter...well...yea.
> 
> They will DEFINITELY be in the next one! I promise! This was honestly a filler chapter that took me like two months to write because I had no idea where I was going; however, I do have a decent plan in mind regarding plot, as well as some snippets from future chapters. Right now the outline goes to Ch. 13, and this fanfic may be about 20-25 chapters long. Don't even get me started on word count. 
> 
> The updating schedule is planned to be (hopefully) the middle of every month, or the 14-16th. If not, blame school work and horrible procrastination. Comments and constructive criticism is welcome!


	6. Look at This! (A/N)

So...it's been a *while*. I deeply apologize for seemingly orphaning the story, but I've gone through a series of weird, tiring, and interesting events within the past year and some change. 

But, after much pondering, editing, procrastinating, crying, and general tomfoolery, I have decided to pick this story back up. I can't promise when I will upload the next chapter, but I may do so within the next couple of months or so. I plan to post at least three chapters that should finish the first arc and enter into the middle of the next. 

Please be patient with me, and thanks to those who left kudos and comments!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is relatively short since I was just doing a bit of free-writing and I have no idea how to write the introductions of stories. Leave your comments below if you have any! :)


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